Locked and Loaded

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Watch out!

Moving towards the platform the remaining passengers pass by the bodies of those who only moments ago were marching in the tunnel with them. Each has had his or her throat cut and lays awkwardly across the rails, the last of the blood still dripping into the sea of goo on the track bed. Penelope taps one or two with her toe, which is becoming sticky. Charles is more professional and thorough, but he finds none of the civilians alive.

The man he shot still lives, however, his breath coming in rasping gasps. The large caliber bullet has torn most of his left arm off and he is bleeding, but he will survive with treatment.

A horrible site on the platform

As they reach the platform itself an awful sight greets them. Bodies are stacked up like cord wood alongside the walls of the white tiled station. Dozens of bodies. Perhaps hundreds. Men. Women. Children. Mostly Asians, but whites and negroes among them, though all seem at a glance poorly dressed, street people. Each has had their throat cut and their blood is what has been trickling down the train tracks – after having washed over a complicated design painted on the concrete floor of the platform.

In the right hand corner of the platform (it opens to your right) is a circular opening about ten feet in diameter that is clearly not part of the original design of the station. The end of a ladder is rested on the platform floor and extends inside the dark opening, sloping down slightly into what looks like a large, spherical void.

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Finding the living enemy Charles growled, calling to the others. “One of them is alive. Get over here!”.
Whatever had happened in the bowels of London had been terrible and wrong. The doctor had seen death before but even he was shocked by the number of bodies and the merciless brutality that had taken their lives. None of the fallen were soldiers. Maybe this man had answers…

Acting quickly he scanned the ground near the ‘cultist’ and made to kick away any weapon within reach. If any of the other passengers came to help he would bark “Hold him down. You, get his legs. You, his arm.”. At the same time Charles dug into his bag for his tourniquet and efficiently slid it into place to staunch the flow of blood. As he tightened it he knew from experience the patient would feel a burning pain and dizziness and the doctor within him ached to reach for the sedative in his bag. Instead though he needed the man awake. Leaning over the victim the doctor demanded authoritively “What have you done? What is this?”.

Unless any of the other passengers objected though, Charles would automatically begin to prepare a syringe with a sedative. He needed answers, but was a doctor first and foremost.

Medallion worn by assassin

[As Charles works on the wounded assassin, applying the tourniquet, he notices that the man, who seems to be of Asian ethnicity, is wearing a brass medallion and seems to have many tattoos. The assassin’s knife, the blade sticky with blood from the passengers he had killed also looks to be of an Oriental design — and very sharp.

In response to the military man’s sharp questioning, the assassin manages a grim chuckle and he hisses in broken English:

“The War Lord’s will is not questioning by nothings like you. His will is all. Yog Sothoth be praised!”

The man wriggles suddenly, still powerful and determined, despite his awful wound, and he pulls a metallic star shaped object from within his robes which he tries to stab at Charles’ wrist. The points of the star are razor sharp and coated with a dark stain.

Luckily the star cuts only into the heavy cuff of the doctor’s uniform and does not slice into his skin. After this single swift attempt at attacking the doctor, coming as fast as a striking snake, the assassin grips the star in his hands and squeezes. The points stab into his flesh and the man stiffens in agony. The end is very swift as he gasps once or twice and then shudders into final stillness.]

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Poisoned throwing star

James, one hand on the platform edge, spirits momentarily lifted by the prospect of escape, freezes at the awful sight. He tries to take it all in, but it doesn’t seem possible, a grisly abattoir where Moorgate should be.

He hears someone say something, some orders barked, and some part of his brain is happy to fall in with those orders for the present. He turns away from the vision of hell and kneels down to help the doctor, until his rational mind can reaquire the reins.

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Madalena is grateful that at least the conductor’s lantern has done its job. Enough people have already died today. But she is not prepared for the discovery of just how many that truly is.

The Contessa swoons and grasps at the tunnel wall for support at the sight of such a slaughter; so many that it is perhaps almost mercifully hard to discern individuals. But her eyes are drawn to the design on the platform. Once again she is convinced that this is magick, but beyond anything that the Golden Dawn has ever hinted at – surely the blackest, most unspeakable kind that she could ever conceive of. She stares for a while at what she supposes to be a magic circle, eager to have something other than the charnel house to look at, trying to commit the pattern, like the sorceror’s face, to memory, though she knows at the back of her mind that this is a scene that she will be reliving for many years to come, in her nightmares.

[She looks at the hole in the corner of the platform.] It is equally clearly not part of the station’s original design. It seems similar to the huger void into which the rest of the train fell.

[Trying to see more,] she will shine the lantern that she took from James into the void to see if she can see anything in there.

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Michael pockets the piece of medallion and knife, being careful to keep his clumsy fingers away from the blade. It is only as he looks up that he takes in the true scale of slaughter at the end of the station. “Mg God where did all these people come from…” he whispers under his breath before vomitting violently on the tracks in front of him (san fail, seven points lost….). Pulling himself to his feet slowly, he wipes his mouth and in a daze approaches the design etched into the floor.

Certain meetings he has attended…certain others he has heard tales of…there is plenty of the occult at play here though more Crowley than Keats. Keeping his eyes away from as much of the slaughter as possible he examines the design.

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Blinking after the dazzling display of the robed figure, Rene scrambles out of his hiding place and rejoins his companions on the platform. As his eyes fully adjust, the sight before him causes his knees to buckle (Sanity check fail) and his vision to go blurry. However, he manages to grit his teeth and regain his composure (only -1 sanity). The knuckles on his hand clutching his briefcase have gone white.

Occult design on platform

Rene takes a close look at the symbol on the floor hoping to recognize it. He’ll also jot down a sketch in one of his notebooks. He is also curious about the dark hole in the corner but lacking the agility to fully explore it he won’t be the first to do so. He will encourage any others who share his interest to go forth. He will also query the other survivors as to if any of them have heard stories of people going missing or other such dark happenings in the city lately, as he is not a local.

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Michael finds himself next to Rene as they examine the symbol and he watches him sketch it. “The occult is at work Sir, and its work is only just beginning I think.” He tries to get his bearings, guaguing whether the holes in this area could be connected with the larger one that destroyed the train. He also peers warily down the ladder…

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James relaxes his grip on the dead man, appalled by his fanaticism. The incomprehensible and murderous nature of his actions seem utterly alien to him, and with uncharacteristic anger he tears the brass medallion from the man’s neck, stands up, and glares at it, as if expecting some revelation.

When none is forthcoming, he leans down and picks up the knife. He wipes the blade clean of gore and, hopefully, any other lethal substances, on the man’s clothes, and looks for the sheath it was held in, if any – if not, wrapping it in a handkerchief and putting it in his coat pocket.

He steps up onto the platform proper and turns to address the apparent doctor.

“James Wodehouse, sir,” and turning his eyes with reluctance back on the gruesome scene:

”Have you ever seen such a thing?”

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Charles stood alongside James, extricating the deadly poisoned star from his assailants morbid grasp. It flickered in the moving torch light and he reached for his ‘kercheif to wrap it safely.

Despite his experience in the field Charles felt his heart pounding and the scuff on his wrist from the attempt on his life was a cruel reminder of how close the blade had come. James’ introduction though was a welcome distraction and he forced himself to respond as befitted a man of the kings army.

“Captain Charles Hills-Nicholson, at your service Mr Woodhouse. I am, as you may have surmised, a doctor.”. The unmoving bodies around them seemed too many to count. Innocents brutally murdered by a force twisted and unwelcome in his city. Charles shook his head. “No, I’ve seen nothing like this. Death yes…many a soldier on a battlefield who knew what he faced. These men and women though…their lives were stolen by ungodly folk.”.

He paused. By now he knew none of those lying unmoving would open their eyes to see loved ones again. The only survivors were James and the other passengers congregating near a gaping darkness that Charles couldn’t yet make out. There were no more patients here for the doctor to help but back up the tunnel they had heard the screeching snarl of metal as the next train had slammed on its brakes. Were there injured folk there who needed his help? He thought quickly.

“Did you hear what that devil said? A warlord named Yog Sothoth wasn’t it?”. Charles pointed toward the station where the enemy have disappeared. “We need to secure this place, then go back for help. The police need to see this.”.

Picking up his bag he began to stride toward the platform. His eyes narrowed as he realised what lay ahead; more unnatural voids.